


stand by me

by buckydarling



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mild Angst, Modern Era, Slow Dancing, i love these boys so much there's a physical pain in my chest, its soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 22:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14364807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckydarling/pseuds/buckydarling
Summary: Spot takes a shaky breath. “It’s stupid.” Race shakes his head, squeezing their joined hands.“I don’t believe that. You’re allowed to be anxious about things.” Spot shrugs, then breathes out slowly.“I don’t know how to dance,” he admits quietly. “Like, how to slow dance. And everyone dances and I’m not gonna know how.” Race’s shoulders slump a little, and he smiles.





	stand by me

**Author's Note:**

> a small drabble of softness to tide you beasts over while i work on a few bigger projects because i'm a dumbass

It’s after midnight on a Friday in New York City. The stars are out, obscured by light pollution; the marquees are lit and the billboards flash. Hundreds of thousands of people mill about on the sidewalks below, car horns and chatter create a cacophony of noise that rises to the tops of the skyscrapers, and in a tiny apartment in Washington Heights, Spot Conlon is having a minor breakdown. 

 

“I don’t understand why you’re so nervous all of a sudden,” Race prods him patiently, sitting beside him on the couch. “We’ve known about Sarah and Katherine’s wedding for months. Date’s been marked on the calendar and everything. Hell, even if they hadn’t invited us, Jack won’t fucking shut up about it.” He frowns, poking Spot, who still has his head in his hands. “Did something happen with your suit? Forget something?”

 

Spot shook his head. “‘S not that,” he mumbles, offering no further details. Race sighs, reaching out and tugging on one of Spot’s arms until he releases it, lifting his head. He laces their fingers together and leans forward until Spot is forced to meet his eyes. 

 

“You can tell me,” Race tells him quietly. “You know I’m the last person that would ever judge you.” Spot snorts. 

 

“Yesterday you threatened to break up with me because I bit into a kit-kat without breaking it off first,” he reminds Race, who feigns an offended scoff. 

 

“That was different. That was against the natural order of the universe,” he says, and Spot lets out a small laugh, but the tension remains in his shoulders. Race allows himself to be serious again and squeezes Spot’s hand. “Spot.  _ Hey,” _ he nudges, and Spot looks at him. “What’s going on,  _ amore _ ?” he asks gently, and Spot blushes a little at the affectionate nickname. “You know you can tell me anything,” Race tells him. 

 

Spot takes a shaky breath. “It’s stupid.” Race shakes his head, squeezing their joined hands. 

 

“I don’t believe that. You’re allowed to be anxious about things.” Spot shrugs, then breathes out slowly.

 

“I don’t know how to dance,” he admits quietly. “Like, how to slow dance. And everyone dances and I’m not gonna know how.” Race’s shoulders slump a little, and he smiles. 

 

“That’s alright, Spot. You’re not the only one. And it’s not even real ballroom dancing. You don’t need to know how.” Spot looks tenser than before, blinking rapidly. 

 

“That’s not the  _ point, _ ” he argues, his voice getting louder. “I’m not gonna know, and I’m gonna make mistakes, and everyone’s gonna see me make mistakes and they’re all gonna look and they’re gonna  _ know  _ I don’t know how,” his voice wavers, almost like he might cry, “and I know it’s not that big of a deal but everyone’s gonna  _ stare  _ at me and I can’t  _ do that,  _ Race!” He cuts off abruptly, yanking their hands apart and staring at the floor, and suddenly with a twist of his heart Race knows exactly what it is that’s  _ really  _ bothering Spot. 

 

Sarah and Katherine’s wedding is going to be the first social event where Race and Spot are publically a couple. They’ve been together in actuality for almost nine months now, but Spot had grown up in a homophobic, unaccepting household and was hesitant about even coming out, let alone telling people he was in a relationship. Race had been patient, of course; even if they’d stayed private about it for another month, or another year, he’d wait for Spot as long as it took. But it was one thing to tell their friends they were dating, like they’d done three weeks prior; it’s quite another to go out in public and do things like hold your boyfriend’s hand and dance with him at a wedding, especially when you’d been told your entire childhood that it was something to be ashamed of. 

 

Race knows that Spot isn’t ashamed of what they have; he loves Spot with his whole heart, and he knows that deep down Spot wants to be out as much as he does. He’s told Race before about wanting this, about wanting to be able to hold his hand in public, to cuddle during movie nights and kiss in front of their friends. He’s just been too scared; it’s been a hurdle he’s had to overcome on his own, and sometimes Race looks at him and thinks he might possibly be in love with the bravest man in the world. So now that the day is here, Race knows that it’s perfectly reasonable for Spot to be nervous, but he also knows that Spot feels bad about being nervous and doesn’t want it brought up. 

 

So instead, Race takes Spot’s hand again carefully, leaning over and pressing a gentle kiss to his temple before standing from the couch and beckoning him to stand. “Alright, so we’ll practice.” Spot looks at him quizzically. 

 

“You don’t have to,” he mumbles, “it’s stupid, it’s just a waste of time--”

 

Race cuts him off. “Nonsense,” he says. “If you’re nervous about not knowing how to dance, I’ll just show you. Get some experience.” He tugs Spot into a standing position and takes his other hand, smiling reassuringly as he walks back to lead them into the center of the living room. “Hey speaker,” he calls to the wireless speaker they splurged on a few months ago, “play ‘Stand By Me,’ from my phone.” 

 

The speaker bings in acknowledgment, and the opening cello notes begin to drift out of the speaker and fill the living room. Race smiles, swaying a little. “I love this song,” he hums, before tugging on Spot’s hands, who still looks uncomfortable. “C’mere,” he says gently, pulling Spot closer. 

 

Spot sighs. “You don’t have to do this, Racer, it’s fine.” Race shakes his head. 

 

“I want to. Anyway, I’m a little rusty myself. Now,” he instructs, “hold my left hand with your right hand.” Spot rolls his eyes good-naturedly, but takes Race’s hand, stepping a little closer and blushing when Race wraps an arm around his waist and pulls their bodies flush together at the waist so they’re swaying slightly together to the music. “Now put your left hand anywhere - on my shoulder, my back, even just between our bodies,” Race says, quieter now that their faces are closer together. Spot bites his lip, looking down and hesitating before wrapping his free arm around Race’s neck. Race smiles. “Perfect. Now, we dance.” 

 

Spot looks down at their feet as Race begins to step - nothing fancy, just shifting so they sway in circles to the music. There’s still tension in Spot’s shoulders, and he’s concentrating far too much on where his feet should go, so when the song starts over Race reaches up and tilts Spot’s chin up so their eyes meet. 

 

“You don’t have to be so tense,” he whispers reassuringly. “Don’t think about anyone else, okay? It’s just me and you.” 

 

From the way Spot’s eyes soften, Race can tell he understands. He lets his body relax, bringing his right hand down so it rests more on Race’s chest between their bodies. Their hands clasp together again, and this time when they start to sway to the music Spot’s eyes are on Race, steady and sure. Grinning, Race sings a little to the music. 

 

“ _ No I won’t be afraid; no, I won’t be afraid, just as long,”  _ he sings softly to Spot, their gazes locked together,  _ “as you stand, stand by me. _ ” 

 

Spot lets his head drop forward so that their foreheads press together. He closes his eyes, pressed close to Race and breathing softly. “I love you,” he whispers, loud enough that Race can hear over the music but soft enough that if anyone else were around, they wouldn’t hear a thing. Race hums, kissing him gently first on the nose and then on the lips. 

 

“I love you too,” he whispers back. “You can do this, alright? We’re a team.”

 

Spot nods, their noses brushing. “You and me, Racer.” 

 

It’s Spot who kisses him this time, firm and steady and full of all the gratitude he doesn’t feel like he can convey out loud, before dropping his head to Race’s shoulder and resting it there as they dance. They spin in slow circles, humming to the music, safe in each other’s arms and in love. 

 

It’s after midnight on a Friday in New York City. The lights flash, the crowds bustle, and up in a tiny apartment on the seventh floor, Racetrack Higgins sets the song to play once more as he and Spot fall more and more in love with each other, the outside world falling away as they dance. 

**Author's Note:**

> thx for reading i love these headasses 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr: hispanicjackkelly
> 
> kudos and comments if you want more DISGUSTING FLUFF Like this


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